


Incident at Quonochontaug

by Dryad



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Deep throat, Demons, Gen, Memoirs of a Cigarette Smoking Man, Mytharc, Within, pg13, pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fallout, miles from ground zero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incident at Quonochontaug

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2002 for [After the Fact](http://fanlore.org/wiki/After_the_Fact)'s 'Demons' Challenge.
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> 'The dreamer, the unwoken fool,  
>  In dreams, no pain will kiss the brow  
> The love of ages fills the head  
> The days that linger there in prey of emptiness  
> Of burned out dreams  
> The minutes calling through the years  
> The universal dreamer rises up above his earthly burden  
> Journey to the dead of night  
> High on a hill in Eldorado'
> 
>  
> 
> ELO/Eldorado Overture/Eldorado  
> (Electric Light Orchestra)

~*~

Freed from the car's confines, Fox tore down the sandy road, arms and legs pumping, forehead already slick with perspiration. It was an overcast day, no breeze lightening the oppressive heat and humidity. On the way to the summer house, he thought he had seen the Montagues either pulling into or pulling out of their driveway, and if he ran fast enough, maybe he could just catch up to them, and he and Jimmy could play catch or maybe go for a swim or go get ice cream and flippers at Red's. Red's had the best black cherry ice cream in all of Rhode Island.

God, why did their house have to be the one closest to the beach? Not that that was saying much, there was a forest in between and the beach was still a couple of miles away, but everyone else was further up, by the main road into town. Dad said that the privacy was worth the distance, and that someday the house would be worth a lot of money. Fox wasn't sure he was right, though. It wasn't like Quonochontaug was part of the Hamptons, or even Newport News. 

Liza was riding her bike down the driveway, pink and purple ribbons trailing from the white handlebars. "Fox!"

He slowed, then stopped completely. Her waistlength black hair was braided, her fair skin sunburnt. She'd grown in the two years since last he'd been here, since Samantha -

"Hi!" She said with a grin, hopping off the bike, then wheeling it around him to head back towards the house. "Jimmy's out back. Are you here for the whole summer?"

"Um, no. Two weeks," he fell into step beside her. 

"We aren't either. Mom wants to go to Bar Harbor in a couple of days. She says it's too hot down here."

"Yeah, it is pretty hot," he said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. This was so weird. Were those breasts underneath her tee shirt? Had her legs always been that long? 

The Montague house was similar to all the other summer houses on the road, two storied, with clapboards of darkly stained pine, a small porch in the front and unlike the oldest houses, a deck in the back instead of a larger porch. A boat hitched to a car stuck out of the garage. Liza leaned her bike against the porch railing and smiled, motioned him to follow her to the back yard. Like he was going to invade the house or something instead.

Mr. Montague sat on the deck in an Adirondack chair, reading the Sunday paper. Sweat rolled down his naked, lobster-red torso. He didn't look up as they passed. His wife - or so Fox assumed by the diamond ring glinting on her left hand - was bringing a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonaide out from the house. This Mrs. Montague was new, a tall, willowy ash blonde with tits to die for. Fox recalled two other Mrs. Montagues, both brunettes, seen over five short summers. They all seemed similar, nice, but fairly bland. Maybe that's what Mr. Montague liked. 

When he got married, which was a long way off, provided he didn't get any girl into, as Dad liked to say with a wink, 'trouble', she'd be smart, and like the same stuff he liked. Well, maybe not the science fiction, a lot of girls didn't get science fiction. Or monsters, although Jacqui Millhouse loved going to the creature features at the Loews in Oak Bluffs. Actually, she seemed to prefer what they did in the back row as opposed to what they were supposed to be watching. He smirked to himself. Couldn't say he disagreed. 

Jimmy and some other kid were shooting hoops at the netless rim attached to the garage. Liza broke away and headed for the deck and the lemonade, while Fox slowly approached Jimmy. 

The new kid, a tall boy who looked like the new Mrs. Montague, with pale blonde hair and deeply tanned skin, spied him first. He nudged Jimmy, then threw the ball at Fox. "Hey. You play ball?"

He nodded, dribbled, took his shot. It plonked in, easy as pie. Killer. Dr. J would be proud.

"I'm Danny," the other boy said, grabbing the basketball and settling it one hip. 

"Fox."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"They find your sister yet?" Jimmy called, folding his arms.

Of course they would have heard down here, too. He supposed it would have been too much to ask for, to be treated like a normal kid. He glanced at Danny, then back towards the deck. If Mr. or Mrs. Montague had heard, they gave no sign of it.

Jimmy strutted forward, suspicion clear on his face. "You stay away from my sister, y'hear? I don't know what you did to Sam, but you keep away from Liza."

"Jesus, Jimmy," Fox muttered. He stuck his hands in pockets and shifted from foot to foot. "I didn't do anything."

"That's not what my dad says," Jimmy said with a sneer. 

"Well, your dad doesn't know jack!" Fox hotly replied, even though he knew better than to get into it with Mr. Montague sitting not 20 feet away.

"Shut up," Jimmy shoved him, hard. After a moment, having made his point, he turned around. "Come on, Danny, let's go to Red's."

They walked towards the house, leaving him standing there, scuffing one foot in the hard packed dirt like an idiot. Danny glanced over his shoulder and shrugged a little in apology. 

Yeah, well.

Following them past the deck held no appeal, but other than heading off into the scrubby woods, there was no choice. He waited until the boys were inside before starting off. Mr. Montague was still reading the paper, his wife scooping Ambrosia salad onto three plates. She abruptly stepped to one side, bending over far more than necessary and affording him a view of two perfect, plump breasts, dark nipples straining against the fabric of her thin white tank top. He blushed furiously and wished his shirt was untucked.

Liza stood at the very edge of the deck and watched him, lemonade in one hand. She scrutinized him closely. "Are you going back?"

"Huh? Um, yeah," Funny. So many girls seemed to look at him like that lately, doing some kind of measuring, although to what standard, he didn't know. It was unsettling, yet strangely exciting. Whatever they were thinking, it didn't seem to be a negative. It ameliorated her brother's behavior somewhat.

"Can I come over tomorrow?"

He hesitated for only a moment. "Sure."

"Okay."

"Time for lunch," called Mrs. Montague. She looked him over from head to foot, licking her lips. "Friends of Liza's are welcome to stop by anytime."

"Uh, thanks," Fox said. "I, um, I gotta go."

"Bye," Liza waved and headed towards the table.

Relieved, he escaped. 

The incident grew in importance as he walked back down the road. Sure, at home he ignored the sidelong looks and whispers; the Vineyard was a small island and news travelled fast. It was a given that he would be treated differently from before. But he had never expected to see the same here in Quonochontaug, not from the summer people he'd known since he was a baby. Or, for that matter, at Aunt Bea's in Boston. And at Grandpa's in Raleigh. What was it about him that made people so mean? As much of a pain as she could be, he would never have wished Samantha gone, not like this, without a whimper, without a trace. 

If only he could remember what had happened that night, everything would be okay. Dad would spend more time at home, like he used to, and Mom would cry for joy when she thought he couldn't hear, instead of for sorrow. Samantha would be back, and they'd do all the things he'd promised to teach her, like how to climb the rope of the tire swing, and how to do long division, and how to really hit a baseball. They'd watch all her favorite shows, Pink Panther and the Monkee's and Petticoat Junction and the Jetsons. He missed her, missed the way she smiled, missed the dolls which occasionally found their way into his bed during thunderstorms.

By the time he reached the house, his chest hurt and his eyes burned with unshed tears. He wasn't twelve anymore, he could deal with this like he dealt with everything else. 

Another car was in the driveway, a black shark of a thing, ugly in its sharp fins and long lines, like McGarrett's car in Hawaii Five-O. As he rounded the carriage house corner, he saw his dad and another man on the house-wide back porch. The odor of pipe tobacco warned him of his father's mood. He hopped up the steps onto the porch, making sure the door didn't slam behind him. 

Dad removed the pipe clamped between his teeth long enough to say, "Fox, go help your mother."

With nary a glance at the other man he did as his father asked, lingering on the other side of screen door to hear what they said. Since Samantha's disappearance, he'd realized the only way he could get information was to eavesdrop on his parents. They fought a lot.

"The damned fool's writing a book, can you believe it?" the stranger's voice was mild, with a hint of a mid-western accent. "A story about a man, a jack of all trades - "

" - and master of none," replied his dad, clipped New England tones controlled and almost frosty. "Was it any good?"

"Nothing more than a dime-store thriller. Carl may be a lot of things, but we can safely cross 'writer' off the list."

They stopped talking, and Fox carefully tiptoed away from the door, glad he was wearing his old deck shoes with the softened soles instead of the new ones, which would have been loud on the polished wooden floor. It wasn't as if he'd be beaten if his father found him there, like Andy's dad would, but he didn't like to disappoint his father, didn't like the recurrent silent treatment that lasted for days on end.

The hallway was blessedly cool and dark, and he made a beeline for the kitchen. He was hungry, despite the chili-cheese dog he'd eaten on the ferry from Vineyard Haven to New London. The kitchen resembled the inside of a furnace, sans glowing coal.

"Are you here to help me make dinner?" his mother asked, wiping flour dusted hands on the apron tied around her waist.

"No, I'm here to eat lunch," he said. He reached towards the open box of Triscuits on the table.

She shook her head and lightly slapped his hand away. "My mother always told me a growing boy would eat you out of house and home, but until you came along I never believed her. While you're here, would you get the baking soda from the top shelf, please?"

Hoping for another chance at a Triscuit, he leaned against the counter and watched her add salt, a pinch of sugar, and butter to the flour and baking soda in the bowl. She cut the butter in with two knives, her hands quick and efficient, then added iced water in small amounts, mixing it all with a wooden spoon. "What are you making?"

"Scones," She smiled at him brightly. "My mother's best friend was from Scotland - "

Would she ever stop telling that story? 

" - and handed down recipes for Aberdeen Butteries, baps, Cullen Skink, clootie dumplings, Cranachan. Hand me that baking sheet. She taught me how to make the Black Bun you swear you don't like. I know it's early in the year for them, but Mrs. Glendale brought over a quart of strawberries, so I thought I'd make Strawberry Shortcake for dessert. It was Samantha's favorite, remember?"

Fox nodded and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. His mother dropped the dough onto the baking sheet, floured it lightly, then rolled it out quite thick. She partially sectioned it with a carving knife, making sure the blade went in no more than half an inch. He opened the oven door for her, leaning away from the blast of heat.

"Were the Montagues at home?"

The question caught him unawares, and he stuttered in his response. "Y-y-yeah."

"Yes," she replied, putting the bowl and rolling pin into the sink. She turned on the hot water. "I don't know where you pick up such language."

He wasn't prepared for the admonishment, even though he heard it constantly. Both she and his father had made it quite clear on numerous occasions that he was to speak properly in their presence. For whatever reason, this time her comment cut him to the quick. The nebulous, hollow pain reappeared, crawling up his throat and threatening to make him lose what composure he had regained during the walk home. She must have seen something in his face, for she dried her hands and wrapped her arms around him. He was amazed to find that the top of her head only came a little higher than his shoulder. When had that happened?

"You're a good boy, Fox," She brushed one hand over his hair. "You're going to be a wonderful man."

He pulled away and ducked his head in embarrassment. "Mom, don't."

She snorted and smiled. "I packed some sandwiches for you. They're on the refrigerator in the brown bag."

"Thank you," He grabbed the bag, peeked in and found said sandwiches, plus an apple and a snack bag of Lays. "I'm going to get a book and go to the beach, if that's okay?"

"Have a good time, dear," she said, brushing spilled flour off of the table. "Don't be late for dinner. Oh, is your father still on the porch?"

The thing about his mother was that although she was a Lady in the Southern sense of the word, she always made her disapproval plain in the tone of her voice, no matter how politely she spoke. Looking down the hall, he could see the slow drift of smoke across the screen door, and hear the low murmur of masculine voices. "Yeah. Yes."

"I'll set an extra place for dinner, then."

Fox nodded and headed for the stairs. He wasn't sure what he was in the mood for, out and out fantasy, or plain old science adventure. He'd brought Piper's _Little Fuzzy_ , a Van Vogt anthology called _The Gryb_ , Bester's _Demolished Man_ , Lem's _Futurological Congress_ , and on a whim, LeGuin's _Dispossessed_ and Moorcock's _Elric of Melnibone_ , both of which looked quite intriguing. 

Staring at the books in his hands, he picked the covers he liked best - Piper and Moorcock - and shoved them into his knapsack with his lunch and a beach towel. He left by the front door, not wanting to be drilled on where he was going and for how long and which route he was taking. It was a sign of his father's love, he knew, but sometimes it just became overwhelming and he had to run as far and as fast as possible. 

Although the trail through the forest was barely visible through last year's leaf litter, he walked along with the ease of ten summer's worth of familiarity. Last summer he would have done anything to be here, to have gotten away from Chilmark. Marjorie Bennett and Dottie Hamilton had come over every Wednesday to play three handed Pinochle, Nancy Goldstein too when they needed a fourth, and he had heard their raucous laughter as they gossiped about everyone in town, about who was smoking marijuana and who drank too much and did you know Betsy Millhouse was having an affair with Dr. Franklin? Eventually his mother would make some kind of excuse to leave the room, inevitably catching him sitting on the stairs, listening to them talk. Sometimes she had sat down with him for an all too brief minute or two, rubbing his back and telling him everything would be okay in the end.

Fox had wanted to believe back then. Another whole year had passed, though, and he had come to understand that her friends were merely a way of passing time, of letting her forget that Samantha wasn't upstairs in bed, asleep, dreaming little girl dreams. She told him everything would be all right, but it wasn't, and he didn't think it ever would be again.

So he had decided to let loose the things he wanted the most, apart from Samantha. He would be like Northwest Smith, drifting with the tides, helping people who asked, all the while searching for his sister. There was a lot to learn, and he had applied himself in school so he could go to college, maybe join the Armed Forces after that, learn how to use weapons so he could fight the bad guys, whoever they were. 

Dad was particularly against him going to the Army. When he was in his cups, he liked to quote some old guy, Von Closets, some weird name, he'd say, "Son, war is always the failure of diplomacy". Of course, this was usually followed by "Occasionally you have to fight evil with evil" and "Sometimes you have to sacrifice your most treasured possession for the greater good". He generally switched to the single malt after making this pronouncement, crying "We beat those Nazi bastards straight back to hell, goddamn it". Then he'd wipe away the tears, blow his nose and go to bed. 

To be honest, the Army didn't really appeal, not with the war in Vietnam. Andy Cavendish's cousin was MIA, and Debbie Wiltse's sister's husband was due to ship out in September. Besides, he'd heard too many stories from Uncle Jacob about what war was really like to think it was cool. Partially deaf Uncle Jacob, who had three Purple Hearts and was also missing an eye and both legs below the knee. 

Fox sighed and looked both ways before crossing the road to the beach. Truthfully, he didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up. He just wanted Samantha back, and ultimately nothing else mattered.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> ~*~
> 
> Oo, it's a plethora of 70's nostalgia! 
> 
> Dr. J - Julius Erving, one of the greatest basketball players ever.
> 
> Ambrosia Salad - the ingredients of include: mandarin slices, crushed pineapple, mini-marshmallows, Cool Whip, lemon, orange, or lime jello, and desiccated coconut. Hmm. Yuck.
> 
> Scones, cranachan - recipes available at The Grove when I get around to it. 
> 
> All of the books mentioned are excellent. I tried to pick titles that would have been easily available in '75, ranging fron 40's and 50's pulp (Alfred Bester, AE Van Vogt, H. Beam Piper) to 60's New Wave (Michael Moorcock) and the flood of female authors writing under their own names in the 70's (Ursula LeGuin. The Dispossessed won the 1974 Nebula, and the 1975 Hugo). Stanislaw Lem, being Polish, doesn't really fit into any of the above categories, but I guess you could slot him in with under 70's New Wave (kinda, not really), as from what I recall, that's when his novels started becoming easily available in the US. John Scalzi rewrote (with the permission of Piper's Estate) Little Fuzzy. I haven't read it yet.
> 
> Northwest Smith is C.L.Moore's eponymous hero. 'The Best of C.L.Moore' is definitely worth seeking out for 'Shambleau', 'Black Thirst', and 'Vintage Season' (David 'Pitch Black' Twohy's excellent first movie, 'Grand Tour:Disaster in Time', is the big screen adaptation of 'Vintage Season'). Along with Leigh'co-wrote Star Wars' Brackett and Andre Norton (still writing into her 90's!)[ _Norton died in 2005, and like so many others, I would not be a writer without her influence_ ], Moore was one of the finest pulp writers of the 30's and 40's. 
> 
> Karl Von Clausewitz - Prussian general, brilliant military strategist. Most famous quotation: "War is merely the continuation of policy by other means". His masterpiece, 'On War', echoes themes of both Sun Tzu ('The Art of War') and Machievelli.


End file.
